For a Mother's Sins

by Diane Allen

  ‘Aye, she’s a fair woman, all right. Not bad for someone who’s got a lass that old. I’ve seen her hanging the washing out. When the wind takes her hair, she looks like something out of a painting . . .’ Mike lost track of his thoughts for a moment, picturing a windswept Molly pegging washing on the line.

  ‘She’s too much about her for you!’ John laughed, throwing a light punch at Mike’s shoulder. ‘Best let your older brother show how it’s done.’

  ‘Keep your bloody voice down! Ma would hit us into next week if she knew what we were thinking. She hasn’t a good word for the woman.’

  ‘You’re right there, lad,’ John laughed. ‘There would be hell to pay if one of us were ever to walk out with her!’ He nodded at the door. ‘Come on, time we were off.’

  The men left the house, hurrying to catch up with their father and younger brother, both sporting a twinkle in their eye as they considered what good sport a night with Molly would be if they dared risk incurring their mother’s wrath and disappointment.

  Ahead of them they could see the huge banks of soil that were being heaped up either side of the scaffolding, covering the valley floor of peat moss and cotton grass. Men were busy putting harnesses on the horses that would tow the heavy carts loaded with construction materials, and two carts pulled by pit ponies were standing by to take the dyno men and their explosive cargo into the tunnels below Blea Moor, where they were blasting their way through to Dentdale.

  As they waited for John and Mike to catch them up, Jim Pratt took the opportunity to point out the latest developments on the construction site, explaining to his youngest son how the various parts of the viaduct would eventually connect together and the vast distance it would cover. To his dismay, Bob seemed completely unimpressed. Unlike his older brothers, the boy showed little interest in improving himself. He was a dark and moody lad who didn’t seem to care about his work or his appearance, or even his family. His mother put it down to Bob being the ‘afterthought’, as she called it. Most days they just left him to it, ignoring his surly manner, but this morning he was even grumpier than usual. Jim gave up trying to educate him, removed his pocket watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. They were running late. He shouted at his lads to get a move on.

  The brisk pace left them breathless, so no words were exchanged until they reached the point where their paths separated, John heading for Blea Moor and the others for the foundations of the viaduct.

  ‘See you tonight,’ John called cheerfully, turning away from them.

  ‘You might,’ said Mike. ‘I’ve something in mind.’

  He grinned as his brother wheeled around and hurried back to him.

  ‘And what might that be?’ said John, raising an eyebrow. ‘Does it involve a certain widow?’

  Mike looked anxiously at Jim and Bob, who had carried on walking. ‘Keep your bloody voice down.’

  ‘I tell you what, our lad, let’s have a bet on who can win the Widow Mason over. How about a week’s wages to the one who beds her first?’ John winked, certain of his own prowess in these matters.

  ‘You’re on – but not a word in front of Father or our Bob. They’ll only blab to Mam and there’ll be hell to pay if she gets wind of it.’

  Mike spat in his hand and held it out. John did the same and they shook hands.

  ‘May the best man win,’ said Mike.

  ‘No contest!’ John laughed. Then he took off at a run, having noticed that his ride was leaving without him. As he jumped on the back of the cart, he shouted down the valley: ‘You haven’t a chance, mate. Besides, what would Jenny say?’

  Shaking his head, Mike hurried to catch up with his father and Bob.

  Jim Pratt gave him a curious glance. ‘What was that all about?’

  ‘Nay, nothing, Pa. Our mad John up to his usual tricks, that’s all.’

  ‘Now then, Lizzie, soon as you’ve washed them pots up we’d better go and see your mother, make things right with her. While we’re there, we can pick up a few of your clothes.’ Rose looked across at the girl, who was standing with her back to her, scrubbing the porridge pot. ‘Are you still all right about stopping with us, pet?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Pratt.’ Lizzie kept her face turned away so that the tears wouldn’t show. The last thing she wanted was to seem ungrateful to the elderly neighbour who had saved her from ending up in the workhouse. ‘But I’m going to miss my mam. I can still go and see her, can’t I? She didn’t mean what she said yesterday. I bet if you ask her this morning she won’t even remember what she said.’

  ‘Course you can, darling.’ Rose came and stood beside her, running her fingers through Lizzie’s unkempt hair and studying her troubled face. ‘Tell you what – come Saturday, after the lads have got paid, I’ll have Bob take us to Ingleton in the trap. There’s a shop there where we can pick out some lovely ribbons for this hair. I always wanted to buy ribbons and pretties for a little girl, but it wasn’t to be.’ She gave a heavy sigh.

  Lizzie said nothing, but far from being cheered by the promise her heart sank at the prospect. Ribbons, indeed! She was fourteen, not four. If she had to stick something in her hair she’d much prefer a hair slide.

  No point worrying about it, though. Saturday was four whole days away, and the way her life was going at the moment anything could happen between now and then.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded Molly Mason, opening her front door to find Rose Pratt on her doorstep.

  ‘Now, Molly,’ said Rose, pushing Lizzie in front of her so that Molly could see the girl. ‘I’ve brought Lizzie with me so we can get this sorted out. You can’t just ignore—’

  ‘Ignore what? I haven’t got time to be messing about with you – and what do you think you’re doing with our Lizzie? I’ve been calling her the last hour. She should be filling my boiler up, ready for today’s washing.’ Molly scowled and reached out her arm to pull Lizzie inside the hut.

  ‘Surely you remember something of yesterday, Molly? Have you forgotten what happened when the vicar called on you? The things you said?’ Rose stepped between mother and daughter, holding Lizzie back.

  Pulled between the two women, Lizzie didn’t know which way to go.

  Molly squinted at Mrs Pratt in confusion. ‘Vicar? A bloody vicar, here, in this house? That’ll be the day!’ She released Lizzie and planted her hands on her hips defiantly. ‘Did I offer him my soul? Because that’s about the only damn thing I’ve got left to trade.’

  ‘Now, Molly, there’s no cause for blasphemy. Why don’t you let us both come in and I’ll tell you what we’re going to do.’ Rose stepped forward, trying to edge her way into the hut.

  ‘Lizzie, get your bloody self in here! As for you – ’ Molly pushed Rose Pratt on the shoulder, nearly pushing her over – ‘you can jigger off.’

  ‘Mam, stop it! You told the vicar he could take me to the workhouse – and he would have done, too, if it wasn’t for Mrs Pratt. You were drunk again, don’t you remember?’

  It was the first time Lizzie had stood up to her mother, but she knew she had backing and for the first time since Dad died her stomach was full and she felt clean and she hadn’t had to listen to her mother’s alcoholic slumbers.

  ‘You cheeky brat! Don’t you tell me when I’m drunk – you’re too much like your father. He was always lecturing me.’ Molly spat the words out like venom. She hated anyone knowing that she drank, but most of all she hated herself for drinking. But how else could she have survived these last six months? Without a tipple to numb the pain, her grief would have killed her.

  ‘I’m sorry to say it, but she’s right, Molly.’ Rose drew herself up to her full height and said in a firm voice, ‘I’m going to take your daughter home with me now. When you’ve straightened yourself up, you know where to find us. Lizzie won’t be going anywhere, will you, pet?’

  Lizzie shook her head, angry and ashamed of her mother. Molly used to be such a good mother. When Dad was alive, the shanty hut was always full of l
aughter and talk about what they would do with all the money he’d make building the greatest railway in England. All that ended when he fell to his death from the top of the viaduct. Lizzie could still hear the horn they used to sound the alarm that there had been an accident; she could see the crowd of workmen surrounding his crumpled body as it lay on the ground. His legs had been broken in the fall and his face was deathly white against the pool of red blood that surrounded his head. And she remembered the screams of her mother as she ran as fast as she could with an unborn baby in her belly, collapsing beside her husband’s body, refusing to let go when they tried to drag her away. She’d heard those same screams again the other night when Tommy died. That night when their entire world had finally fallen apart.

  ‘Come on, pet,’ said Rose gently. ‘Let’s leave your mother with her thoughts. We’ll go and make some bait for my boys. They usually have a drink and a bite to eat mid-morning. You can take John his, up at Blea Moor. He usually misses out because my old legs won’t take me up there, but yours will.’

  ‘Aye, bugger off, the pair of you! I can manage without you, Lizzie Mason. You’ll soon come running back when she’s dragging you to Sunday School and chapel.’

  The door slammed shut in their faces, but through the thin wood they could hear Molly’s body slide into a crumpled heap, sobbing for her lass, the only one she had left in the world, and asking what she had done to deserve such a hard hand.

  As Molly sat drying her tears on her apron, a moan sounded from behind the sacking curtains that divided the room and the ragged form of Cloggie stumbled from the bed. Molly sniffed, pulled herself together and rose to her full height.

  ‘You can bloody well get out as well!’ she said, marching across the room. She dragged the hungover navvy to the door, hauled it open and shoved him outside. ‘Go on, bugger off! And don’t come back. You’ve had me now, but by God that’ll be your one and only time.’

  Then she leaned on the closed door, vowing that never again would she allow herself to get in such a state. She’d clean her act up and make sure that Lizzie knew she was loved. As for Rose Pratt, she’d show that interfering old bag. Nobody walked over Molly Mason. Surely, with all the people and money in Batty Green, there was a way to make a decent living. Now that she was a free woman, no baby, no family, the world was her oyster. If she couldn’t make it now, she never would.

  Lizzie turned at the sound of the commotion. Her cheeks flushed red with humiliation when she saw her mother’s lover being pushed out of the front door in a state of undress. Even at her tender age, Lizzie could spot a loser – and Cloggie was definitely that. Her dad used to say that Cloggie viewed life through the bottom of a glass; she hadn’t known what it meant back then, but she did now.

  ‘Never you mind, pet. You’re with me now. At least your mother has had the sense to throw him out. It’s a step in the right direction. Now let’s get them sandwiches made and you can take them up to our John.’

  Lizzie bowed her head, ashamed of her mother. Molly obviously didn’t love her, else she wouldn’t carry on that way. It was as if, when Tommy died, she’d given up caring about her daughter, blaming her for the baby’s death. She probably thought Lizzie was guilty of stealing from the church, too. It was so unfair. None of it was Lizzie’s fault: she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and there was nothing she could do to make things right again.

  The track up to Blea Moor was lined with navvies hacking their way into the peaty soil of the Yorkshire fell, building the foundations for the railway. One day this track would be buried beneath great banks of earth topped by iron rails, with the steam trains thundering through on their way to Carlisle. Lizzie tried to imagine the sound of the train engines chuffing along and their whistles echoing off the fells, but for now there was only the sound of the navvies grunting as they swung their picks, and the singing of the skylarks above her. Now and then there’d be the clop of horses and the jingle of their harnesses, and she’d have to step off the track to get out of the way of the heavy carts loaded with supplies. No one acknowledged her presence. The navvies ignored her as they went about their work or took a break from their labours, puffing on their clay pipes and giving their aching backs a rest.

  By the time she reached the gaping hole that had been blasted into the fellside, which was now known as Blea Moor tunnel, Lizzie thought her lungs would burst from the effort of the long climb. Pausing to take a breath, she turned around and looked out over the Ribble Valley. The green fields and rolling fells stretched out before her, with the sun glittering on the River Ribble as it wound its way down the valley on its journey to the Irish Sea. Never had she seen such a beautiful view. Despite all the things that had happened to her, she would never willingly trade this place for the smoky mill chimneys of Bradford.

  She could have stood there all day, transfixed by the white cotton grass blowing in the wind, but the spell was broken by the sounding of the hooter. This was followed by shouts from the dyno men, warning fellow workers of the impending blast. Lizzie was standing a few hundred yards from the gaping tunnel when the dynamite exploded. She had never been so close to a blast: the noise was ear-shattering and the ground beneath her shook as another section of the mountain’s innards disintegrated. A great cloud of dust and debris came roaring out of the mouth of the tunnel, completely enveloping the scaffolding and the entrance to the tunnel. Lizzie turned away, shielding her eyes from the grit flying through the air, covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve. When she looked back, men were emerging from the places where they’d been sheltering around the works. There was an eerie silence, as if they were all saying a prayer before resuming their assault on the tunnel.

  Lizzie sat down in the brown wiry grass and looked on as the men scurried about like ants, clearing up the debris. She was so engrossed, she didn’t notice John Pratt’s approach. She gave a start when a shadow fell across her and he spoke.

  ‘What are you doing up here? Is something wrong – did Ma send you? She’s all right, isn’t she?’

  ‘Your mam sent me up with your sandwiches. She said you usually miss out.’

  The worry on his face was replaced by relief. ‘You shouldn’t be up here on your own. It’s not safe with this blasting.’

  He took the package she held out to him and sat down on the grass beside her. Lizzie studied his face as he bit into his sandwich. She’d never been that close to him before. His blond hair and fair-skinned face were plastered with dust from the blast and a knuckle on his left hand was bleeding slightly where he’d cut it.

  ‘Aye, well she should have known better than to send you. It’s no place for a young girl. There’s some funny buggers up here that wouldn’t ask twice about your age. I’ll have to have a word with Ma tonight. Trouble is, she always thinks the best of everybody.’ John fixed her with his forget-me-not-blue eyes as he said this, then ran a hand through his dusty hair. ‘Seems she thinks she’s got to provide a home for waifs and strays too.’ He finished his mouthful of sandwich and took his pipe out. ‘She’s always wanted a lass, but she ended up with us three lads. Even so, it’s a rum do, taking on another woman’s lass – especially at her time in life.’ He lit his pipe and drew hard on it before standing up. ‘Get yourself back home and don’t talk to anyone,’ he admonished her before turning away. ‘And mind the sinkholes – if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself on top of them before you know it.’

  Lizzie remained where she was, gazing after him as he walked down the fellside towards the gaping hole. He didn’t look back at her once, pausing only to pat a man on the back before disappearing into the dark cavity.

  Slowly she got to her feet and brushed her skirt down, musing over what he had said as she started to make her way down the fell. John wasn’t the only one mystified by his mother’s decision to offer Lizzie a home. Grateful as she was that Rose had saved her from the workhouse, Lizzie had no idea why she’d stepped in to save her. She was puzzled too by his talk of folk who woul
dn’t ask her age. She’d soon tell them she was fourteen if they wanted to know.

  The bumps in the grassy fellside meant she had to keep constant vigil else she’d turn her ankle, but Lizzie enjoyed her walk back down into the valley. She hummed a tune to herself, a secret smile playing about her lips as she thought about how blue John Pratt’s eyes were and what a lovely laugh he had, but then she recalled what her so-called friend Florrie had said about feeling things and her face turned crimson with embarrassment. The blush faded as she told herself it was all right for her to like John Pratt, but then she began thinking of liking him in more than a friendly way and the blush returned, ashamed at the direction her thoughts were taking. He was too old and she was too young. It was that Florrie who was to blame. Lizzie had never entertained such thoughts before she met that little thief. As if it wasn’t bad enough that the crafty little minx had almost got her thrown in the workhouse for stealing! Now here she was, having lustful thoughts about men. No wonder the vicar said she’d burn in hell – she probably deserved to.

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do: you can pay me a shilling a month and then I’ll let you keep my lass. You’re not having her for nothing – I know your game. You only want her so she can run around after you, fetching and carrying and cleaning the house. Well, you’re welcome to her – but it’ll cost you.’

  Having hatched her plan, Molly had made her way to the Pratts’ hut, keeping out of sight until she saw Lizzie emerge with the package of sandwiches in her hand and set off up the hill. With four men earning, the Pratts could surely afford a shilling a month. And why shouldn’t she profit, especially since she’d have to do without Lizzie’s help, thanks to them.

  ‘You’re wrong, Molly,’ protested Rose. ‘I only took her in to save her from the workhouse – and you know it. I was doing you a favour.’ She kept her voice low, not wanting any attention being drawn to her doorstep. The last thing she wanted was Molly making a scene. If she wasn’t careful, others might start asking why Rose Pratt had taken in the Mason girl, and they wouldn’t be satisfied with the explanation that she did it to keep the girl out of the workhouse. After all, it wasn’t as if Lizzie was kin to her. No, if she was to keep her guilty secret, the best thing might be to go along with Molly. So in a resigned voice she said, ‘All right, Molly, if that’s what you want we’ll strike a deal. If you promise not to spend it on drink, I’ll give you your shilling a month and Lizzie can work for me. Lord knows I could do with another pair of hands.’